August 31st. The August I rue.

July 31st. I remember praying — begging for a new month where there is love, love, love. Where there is the absence of fear and the conviction that I am made for aching. Where there will be more rainy days so I can continue to build castles on the dewy grass and dance in heaven’s teardrops. A month where I am not hurting, where I am nothing else but held like I’m a vase of your favorite flowers. As if I am the first day of July; the dove that’s white and gentle. For once, I want to be a good person. Allow me to be a good person.

August 1st. I began with hope swelling up in my chest. It was like a river — a flow of sparkles beneath the surface of life. A part of the sun twirling around what’s broken but trying. A petal barely hanging on to what makes it beautiful. The rainy days visited me, some drops rolling down my cheeks — past the mole under my eye, boldly near the top of my lips. I was hoping that this month, I shall not ache, I shall not question, I shall not beg. I prayed to be; I prayed to not become. August, remind me why I am special.

August 31st. I am repulsed. Remorseful. Rueful. My year ended. I did nothing but sit in the rain and let it ruin me. I did nothing but cry and listen to the disgust dangling in my heart. I didn’t speak. I didn’t think. I was more awake than asleep. More tired than relaxed. More hurt and unhealed still. My eyes were burning; I disliked the fire. I was nothing, understood nothing, loved nothing. I was crestfallen. I couldn’t concede — not to the disappointment, not to the lack of surprise. I’m sick of trying to love myself.

September 1st. Will I beg once again?